


Reversed

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Medical, abnormal physiology, gun shot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The man pointed his gun at John's chest, right at his heart, and shot.' </p><p>Wherein John is shot, and Sherlock is the one panicking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reversed

“We're losing him!” he called, just like on that first night spent together. And again, they were chasing someone, but this time they were on foot rather than in a cab, which you might think made it easier to catch, but it really didn't. It just meant they could leap across roofs just as well.

Just as John figured he was going to cough up a lung, he practically ran into Sherlock as he stopped abruptly.

“Go around that way,” he gestured urgently. “We've got him now!”

John obeyed, ducking behind a dumpster to scurry down the alleyway Sherlock had told him too. Sure enough, there was a figure in the distance.

Just as the man reached the end of the alley, Sherlock dropped from above like some morbid superhero.

The man instantly spun and headed the other way, right for John. Unless the man could fly, he was trapped.

“Stop there!” John bellowed. “We're armed!”

It was mostly true. Sherlock had John's gun though, and he felt sort of naked. The man must have realized this, because he brandished a weapon out of nowhere.

John glanced at Sherlock. They hadn't prepared for this.

The man pointed his gun at John's chest, right at his heart, and shot.

Sherlock had him knocked out before he knew what hit him, and scrambled to his side, pressing on the wound with his scarf. John hadn't even noticed him whipping it off his neck.

“Sherlock,” he said weakly. “It's okay.”

“Shush,” he scolded John. “Just breathe. Don't move. Lestrade and an ambulance are on their way.”

“S'okay,” he slurred.

“John,” Sherlock snapped. “Do shut up. But keep your eyes open,” he snapped again as they slid shut.

John exhausted an awful lot of effort, but managed to reopen them.

“C'lapsed lung,” he muttered.

“Obviously,” he retorted. “That tends to happen when you get shot in the chest.”

_In fact, I'm surprised you're not unconscious yet. With that shot, the amount of blood loss should have knocked out out..._ Sherlock shook his head. Now was not the time to be analyzing blood loss patterns and symptoms. 

“John,” he insisted. His eyes were quickly glossing over, and he was on the edge of an abyss Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever come back from if he fell over. “Stay with me John,” he urged. “you always make me stay awake when I get shot, or stabbed, or have a concussion, so it's just about time to return the favour.” He pressed harder on the wound, knowing the pain should keep John more alert. It was hard to tell the amount of blood loss. His scarf was too dark.

“S'lock...” he whispered. “S'okay...”

“No John, you were shot. It's not okay,” he snapped. “But it will be. Soon. But you have to stay with me.”

“Verse...” he whispered. But that was all Sherlock could hear as the sirens pulled up behind him and the clattering of many footsteps, along with a gurney drowned the rest out.

John's eyes slid closed in the time Sherlock took to glance over his shoulder, ensuring they saw him. They did. Within seconds, Sherlock was torn away from John's body to allow the paramedics to work, applying bandages, masks, and inserting IV lines.

“Verse...” he muttered to himself.

“Sherlock? You alright?”

There were hands on him, and another one of those blasted blankets. And that persistent voice. Sherlock forced himself to focus on it.

Lestrade.

“Are you alright? What happened? Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, clearing his head.

“He's unconscious over there,” he told him, waving a hand vaguely. “He shot John, so I hit him on the head with a metal pipe.”

“And how's John?” Lestrade asked, patiently, like he'd already asked before. Sherlock suspected he had, but he just hadn't heard. He belatedly noticed that Lestrade's hand were on his shoulders. It was probably his fault he was wearing the blanket.

“Shot,” he said bluntly.

Lestrade stared at him.

Sherlock blinked again, trying to figure out what was wrong here, because something obviously was.

“Yes, I know that. Where was he shot? Was he conscious when the ambulance arrived?”

“In the chest. And... I don't know. He was right before. He was talking to me.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, nodding. “That's good. Where in the chest?”

Sherlock glanced over to where he'd been rudely shoved away from, leaving John alone, as if to point out to Lestrade that he could see for himself. But John was surrounded by paramedics, and there was no way Lestrade was getting through that just to see where the man was shot.

Sherlock pointed to the spot on his own body, right over his heart. “There,” he whispered.

He felt Lestrade's grip on his shoulders change, but couldn't determine why.

Shock. He must be in shock.

“Yes, you are,” Lestrade said firmly. “And if he was conscious and speaking, that's a great sign.”

He must have said that out loud. Lestrade couldn't read minds, could he?

“Of course you did, and of course I can't. I wish,” he laughed.

“Oh,” Sherlock noted.

The paramedics were moving John now, on the gurney, criss-crossed with wires and tubes, and covered in blood. Sherlock's scarf had been discarded in favour of a pressure bandage, and was lying abandoned by the dark spot on the pavement.

Sherlock took a step forward, fully intending to accompany John to the hospital in the ambulance, but Lestrade held his shoulder.

“I'll take you in my car. Okay?” He made eye contact with Sherlock, who sighed before nodding.

_Must be in shock if he's not putting up a fight,_ Lestrade noted. 

Instead, Sherlock took a step in the other direction, to where John had been laying only seconds before.

Lestrade realized what he was doing as the sirens started up and the ambulance carrying John began to speed off for the hospital.

He was getting his scarf.

He cradled it gently in his arms, as one would a newborn, or a particularly delicate sculpture, and he looked up at Lestrade.

“Okay. Let's go now.”

Lestrade only nodded, still rather dazed from the whole thing, and leaped into his car, Sherlock following suit.

“Use the sirens,” he ordered.

Lestrade nodded again, still at a loss for words as well as a reaction to the whole thing.

 

They arrived at A&E, the nurses immediately fretting over the man covered in blood. They left him alone after realizing none of the blood was his, but he was left on a stretcher behind a curtain, shock blanket still in place, scarf still clasped in his hands.

“John?” Sherlock said suddenly.

“Lestrade?” he said uncertainly.

“Of course, _you're_ Lestrade, I'm not daft,” he snapped. “Where is John and how is he doing. Go! Check!”

Lestrade, a bit flustered by this sudden turn of events, nearly tripped in his haste to obey.

He found John in a trauma bay, looking decidedly worse, but still alive. The room was a hurricane of activity, doctors and nurses rushing about, weaving wires and lines. Lestrade really didn't know how they managed to not get tangled up in them.

John looked rather small on the bed.

“Sorry sir, you can't be here,” someone said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Police,” Lestrade replied to the woman who must have been a nurse, flashing his badge. “Can you tell me how he's doing?”

“Frankly, we're shocked he's still alive. I really can't tell you more. I have to go,” she said, rushing off into the storm, bags of blood in her hands.

Lestrade nodded, knowing that she wouldn't see, but didn't care.

He returned to Sherlock.

“Well?” he demanded.

Lestrade stared at him, entirely unsure of what to tell him, or how.

“He's still alive,” he managed. “I guess we just have to wait and see.”

Sherlock huffed.

Lestrade sat down on the foot of the bed, careful to avoid Sherlock's blood splattered pants.

Waiting with Sherlock was  _hell._

 

It seemed like an eternity before someone came to see them. And even then, they barely knew anything.

“You came in with John Watson, correct?” the woman had asked. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and nodded impatiently. “He's been taken to surgery.”

And although Sherlock had bombarded her with questions, she apologized, not knowing anything else.

She directed them to a waiting room on the surgery floor and backed out of the room, carefully as to not incur the wrath of a Sherlock deprived of information.

Lestrade apologized silently, then dragged Sherlock up to the waiting room. He'd been there enough times, whether it was waiting for Sherlock, John, another one of his officers, a victim, or even a criminal, and knew exactly where it was.

By the time Donovan called him with an update on the suspect, who had since confessed, Lestrade was sure Sherlock would wear a hole in the carpet any time now.

“How is he?” she asked.

“Which one?” he retorted.

Lestrade could hear Sally rolling her eyes.

“Not the freak.”

“He's in surgery. Still. That's really all we know.”

She sighed. “And how is the freak?”

Lestrade watched him do a couple of laps before responding.

“Edgy,” he said finally. “I'll keep you updated.”

He hung up, realizing that it was now an acceptable hour to be calling other people.

First up, Mrs Hudson.

Lestrade glanced at his phone for a minute before pressing the call button. He hated having to break the bad news.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Good morning Mrs Hudson, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Oh dear,” she said quietly. “Have the boys gotten themselves into trouble again?”

“A bit,” he replied. “I need you to do a few things for me.”

“Of course dear.”

“Sherlock needs a change of clothes, his have gotten...” he glanced at Sherlock, the blood on his clothes now dried to a rust shade. “...dirty,” he finished. “We're at the hospital. Can you bring the clothes there?”

“Oh, not again. What's happened?”

Lestrade sighed. “John's been shot. He's still in surgery now.”

Mrs Hudson squeaked.

“Of course, I'll, I'll just get those things and be right there. Oh dear...” she trailed off.

“Mrs Hudson?” Lestrade called into his mobile. There was no response. He shrugged and hung up. The poor woman probably got so flustered she forgot to hang up the phone.

“Is she coming?”

Lestrade jumped, the detective's voice practically booming in his ear.

“Jesus Sherlock, there's no need to sneak up like that.”

“I wasn't sneaking,” he replied impatiently. “Is Mrs Hudson coming?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade muttered,m rubbing his face with his hands. He could really use some sleep. “She's bringing you a change of clothes.”

“Clothes, why would I need-” he glanced down at himself and realized. “Oh. I suppose. Good thinking.”

He threw himself into a chair dramatically.

“What's taking so long?” he moaned.

“It's surgery Sherlock. It takes a long time.” Truthfully, Lestrade was getting a bit antsy too, but he supposed no news was good news, at least for now.

 

Mrs Hudson arrived shortly and looked positively livid at the state of Sherlock.

“Now, don't you think I'm getting those stains out Sherlock. The mess you've made...” She broke off, choking up, and threw her arms around Sherlock despite his dirty clothes. She sobbed into his shirt.

“You always do such dangerous things. You make me so worried. One of these times...” she trailed off, sniffling into his bloody shirt.

“He'll be fine,” Sherlock said absently. He wasn't very convincing.

Thankfully, a nurse chose that moment to enter the room, sparing Sherlock the trouble of having to reassure Mrs Hudson that John would indeed be fine.

“You came in with John Watson, correct?”

Sherlock practically jumped at her.

“Yes. Is he alright? Take us to him,” he ordered.

“He's out of surgery now. You can see him if you'd-”

“Yes. Now.”

She looked startled, but had begun to nod when Lestrade shook his head.

“You're getting changed first,” he said firmly.

Sherlock glanced down at himself, remembering again the state of his clothing.

“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes at Lestrade and ripped his shirt off, not even bothering with the buttons, shrugging his shoulders into the new one, and doing the same with the pants.

“There,” he declared, buttoning the shirt up. “Let's go.”

The poor nurse was gaping at him, Mrs Hudson had a similar look on her face, and Lestrade was mostly wondering what he'd done to deserve this.

“Pick them up,” he ordered.

Sherlock scowled, but obeyed.

Lestrade nodded to the nurse, who led them out of the room without another word.

 

John was intubated, his chest covered in gauze, and was looking rather pale and unwell, but he was alive.

Sherlock sighed with relief and sank into a chair.

“Oh, that's a good dear,” Mrs Hudson assured John, smoothing his blankets and patting his hand. “I always knew you were a fighter. So stubborn... It made you a good match for Sherlock at least.”

Sherlock probably wouldn't have taken kindly to that comment if he'd heard it, but he was too busy observing.

Lestrade really couldn't care about the finer details of John's condition, as long as he was stable. He sighed with relief.

His phone vibrated just as he was thinking about calling into work.

 

We need you to do some paperwork when you can. Somewhat urgent. -Donovan

I'll be there soon. -GL

 

He tucked his phone back in his pocket.

“Great. Now that you're sorted, and he's doing alright, I've got to go. Would you like a ride home Mrs Hudson?”

“Oh, I don't want to be a bother,” she sniffled, waving a hand at him.

“Not at all. May I?” he asked, extending an arm to her.

She smiled at him, and accepted.

“You behave Sherlock, alright?” she scolded gently as she left.

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock was too busy to spare much attention on her, he was watching the monitors, the mechanical rhythm of John's breathing, and the faintest of pulses dancing in his neck.

_Alive._

That was all that mattered.

 

Sherlock waited impatiently by John's bedside for him to wake up.

It was ages.

Then he waited for him to be extubated after he regained consciousness.

Again, ages.

Then he waited for John to wake up after what he claimed would be a short nap.

(It was ages.)

Finally, finally, John was conscious, relatively lucid, and able to speak.

“Don't ever do that to me again!” he scolded.

John only looked confused. “What?”

“Get shot in the heart.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Frankly, it's miraculous you're still alive, getting shot like that.”

John still looked perplexed. “But...”

“No buts John. Just quit getting shot in general, and all will be well.”

Finally, John's face lit up with realization. Grinning, he pushed the call button, then the button that supplied pain medication.

“Lestrade will be doing the drug busts on you next,” Sherlock quipped.

John half smiled, half grimaced.

“I'm sure.”

A nurse entered the room.

“Oh, John, you're awake!” She sounded pleased.

John nodded sleepily.

“Shall I give them to him now?” the nurse asked John.

He grinned. “Sure.”

Sherlock frowned. “Give me what?”

John only grinned wider. “A present!” he declared, the effects of the painkillers already evident in his voice. He was getting close to drifting off again.

The nurse returned with an envelope.

She pulled translucent black and white sheets from them and stuck them on the lightboard at the side of the room.

“His x-rays. There was a standing order to not give them to you until he regained consciousness,” she explained.

Sherlock stepped towards them, and the nurse left without another word. He flicked the light on and frowned at what he saw.

There was the outline of a heart, a collapsed lung, and damage from a bullet wound, but it was all _wrong._

“The x-ray is backwards,” he said.

John shook his head, grinning stupidly, high on painkillers.

“Nope...” he slurred, again close to falling asleep.

Sherlock pondered that as John drifted off.

“Oh!” he gasped, finally understanding. “Oh!” He clasped his hands together under his chin. “That is fantastic!”

He grinned at John's sleeping form in the bed.

He spun around a little, reclasping his hands when he was finished.

“That's what 'verse' meant. Reversed. Oh, this is absolutely brilliant.”

Sherlock grinned wider and threw himself into the chair at John's bedside, waiting for him to wake up so he could share his discovery.

 

“You are ridiculous,” Sherlock announced, as soon as John was conscious enough to maintain the memory as well as understand what it meant.

John only curved half his mouth into a smile.

“I have to keep some things a secret. For a while anyways.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please. You could have died. It would have been extremely useful to know.”

“Oh, right, like how you should have told me you're allergic to bees? Yes, I see what you're saying.”

“Situs inversus totalis,” Sherlock declared, rather like a kindergartener who's just learned his address.

John clapped slowly for Sherlock. “Bravo!” he declared weakly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “This explains how you survived. Had your heart been on the left side of your chest as it's expected to be, you'd be dead right now.” Sherlock admired the advantageous difference. “It explains why you didn't bleed so much, and how you stayed conscious for so long at the scene.” He beamed. “Because it was only a shot to the lung, not to the heart.”

He paused, examining the x-rays again.

“Brilliant,” he declared breathlessly.

“Eloquent as ever,” John noted dryly.

“I have so many experiments to try!”

John groaned. “And that right there is the other reason why I didn't tell you.” He rolled over slightly away from Sherlock.

“It won't be anything invasive. Or until you're completely recovered. John? Please. John? John?”

And John only smirked to himself. He would be using this to his advantage.

 


End file.
